Page:A Legend of Camelot, Pictures and Poems, etc. George du Maurier, 1898.djvu/121



HE Blunder of Short Garments. Thou shalt wear

Thy supple thighs in sheaths of splendid fit,

Much use whereof shall surely render bare

The mystery, yea, the very threads of it;

And cold shall seize thee standing; should'st thou sit,

Thy skin shall vex thee with its tenderness;

Or stoop, thy perilous underseam shall split;

This is the end of every man's excess.

The Blunder of Gay Seasons. Strange delight;

Thy seething garb shall cleave to thee, and cling;

Thy red wet palm shall reek beneath the white;

And fierce black shining leather bite and sting,

A future of sore troubles gathering;

The dawn shall send thee, cold and comfortless,

Creeping along the kerb, an abject thing.

This is the end of every man's excess.

The Blunder of Much Music. Sit thee down,

Nay, stop thine ears, and sleep. For verily,

She that is playing heedeth not thy frown,

And she that singeth takes no thought for thee;

And song shall follow song till thou shalt be

Smitten and bitten with fierce restlessness

To bite and smite in turn, or turn to flee;

This is the end of every man's excess.

The Blunder of Great Banquets. Out of sight,

Beyond the reach of hands that heal for gain,

The dish of thy desire and thy delight

Shall vex thy sleep. Thou shalt behold again

The Lord Knight Mayor, thy host, as King of Pain;

And lo, the worthy Lady Mayoress

As Queen of Pleasure in thy fond heart shall reign;

This is the end of every man's excess.

The Blunder of Long Speeches. Thou shalt burn

To see men whisper, and thy voice grow thick,

And shame shall stain thee red and white by turn,

And all thy wine shall rise and make thee sick;

And short swift sobs shall take thy breath betw-hic!

And in thy skull shall be much emptiness,

And in thy stead, the likeness of a stick.

This is the end of every man's excess.

The Blunder of Late Hours. Leave thy sad bed;

See what strange things shall grieve thy straining sight:

Stray broken glass to greet the dawn; grey dead

Strewn ashes of the weeds of thy delight;

Sick sterile leavings of the hot fierce night;

Yet must thou bend thee to thy business

Thy brain to brood; thy tremulous hand to write;

This is the end of every man's excess.

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